Mating Games 9: Bad Moves
by Kimberly T
Summary: There's trouble ahead for some folks in the clan.  Shouldn't a vacation to 1996 New Orleans be more fun than this?  39th in the Life Goes On saga.
1. Bronx's Bit

**_LIFE GOES ON_**

**_Mating Games 9: Bad Moves_**

By Kimberly T. email: kimbertow at yahoo dot com

Standard Disclaimer: All the characters appearing in Gargoyles and Gargoyles: The Goliath Chronicles are copyright Buena Vista Television/The Walt Disney Company. No infringement of these copyrights is intended, and is not authorized by the copyright holder. All original characters are the property of Kimberly T.

Author's note: **_I give everyone fair warning_**:

Angela fans will probably find this particular episode unpleasant, for a variety of reasons. And some of you readers will no doubt find part of this episode **_very_** unpleasant, and I apologize in advance if anyone experiences a 'trigger' while reading. But it's a fact that even good people can make bad decisions, for a variety of reasons. And too often, bad decisions result in worse consequences.

Also, a little while ago it was pointed out to me that my "Passing Glances" story/series had, despite boasting about covering every major character in my _Life Goes On_ series in 100-word drabbles, actually neglected one major character: Bronx! And the fact that he tends to be neglected by most fanfic writers, since he never has any speaking roles, was just not a good excuse. So, I decided to rectify that omission with the first installment of this episode. And to make up for it, I gave him twice as much attention as the others got! KT

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**9.1: Bronx's Bit**

Bronx is happy. This new clan is good.

There are many hatchlings to play with, every night! And a big forest to hunt in too! Like long-before, when the castle was on the ground instead of up-too-high!

Like long-before, but not just like long-before. The forest is full of water and mud, and has predators that swim fast. Hudson called them "gators", and told him to not hunt alone; to wait until Hudson could hunt too.

Bronx likes to hunt with Hudson, but it is much better to hunt in a pack, with other watchbeasts. But his littermates all died long-before.

He met and played with other watchbeasts in other clans, while traveling many-places in the skiff. Especially the watchbeast in Angela's old clan, the female with the yellow hide and mane, and a lovely long tail. Boudicca; that was what Angela had called her. Boudicca had been very happy to meet Bronx, and they'd played together; hunted and fought bad ones together, too.

Now Bronx is sad. He misses his littermates and elder watchbeasts. And he misses Boudicca.

Then a hatchling tickles him, and he is happy again.

Next: _Faux Pas Grande_


	2. Faux Pas Grande

**9.2: Faux Pas Grande**

Angela was not having a good night. And she wished she could blame someone else for her troubles, but in honesty, she knew she'd brought it on herself.

The unkind and unworthy thought strayed through her mind that she could blame Lexington for her troubles, to some degree. She wouldn't have had to go through any of this unpleasantness if he'd been there at the estate for Ursula to find. But _noooo_, Lex had decided to go off into the bayou with Rebecca and Robert when they'd been temporarily banished the night before, and wouldn't be back until next week. So he'd been nowhere in sight when Ursula had talked to Goliath shortly before dawn yesterday, declaring that whether or not she went with them to New York to become Hudson's mate and a rookery keeper for the Manhattan Clan, his clan absolutely had to have a younger member designated as a rookery keeper as well.

Ursula had pointed out that even if she became persuaded to go to Manhattan after all, she wasn't getting any younger. And while she was in fine health for the moment, that could change in a matter of years. There was also the truism that having only one person taking care of a clan's precious hatchlings, only one pair of eyes and hands to mind rambunctious youngsters full of energy, was just inviting Disaster to come gliding in to roost.

Goliath could hardly argue with that, but he'd assured Ursula that his clan had already had someone in mind for being a rookery keeper when the time came; Lexington, who'd had rookery keeper training for a few years before changing roles to become a warrior.

Ursula had not been impressed. "He may have had some training for the role… but has he the temperament for it? Hudson told me of how he'd originally designated Lexington for keeper training, because he had web-wings and gargoyles with those wings are limited in what they can do as warriors. And how the 'wee green webwinged lad' had rebelled against the role assigned to him, and begged for the chance to prove himself fit for warrior training instead. One who has no desire to be a rookery keeper, generally does not prove to be good at it."

Goliath had actually turned his eyes to the floor, away from Ursula's piercing gaze. "Well… he does very well with Alexander, the human child being raised in the castle with us."

"With one child, who likely spends more hours asleep than awake, given that he's human. How well will he fare with three or four gargoyle hatchlings who'll be awake from dusk to dawn just as he is? Has he the patience and good humor for dealing with their needs night after night?"

Ursula had insisted that she would need to see how well someone handled hatchlings with her own eyes, before agreeing that he or she would be a decent rookery keeper or at least had potential for becoming one. And since Lexington had absented himself, she declared to Goliath that she would see the other eligible and willing clan members in the rookery in turns, and judge for herself how well or ill they would fare as keepers.

Broadway had shrugged and volunteered to be the first one to spend a full two nights doing rookery keeper duties, starting the next sunset. He told Ursula he liked kids well enough, though he'd rather not give up being a warrior. Ursula had thanked him for volunteering, but reminded him that he'd agreed to run the kitchen on nights when Martha had her dates with Brooklyn, and the next date was scheduled for the next night. Then Ursula had looked straight at Angela… as had Broadway and Hudson and Goliath… and Angela had decided to volunteer before she was—what was the word Matt Bluestone had used once?—'voluntold'.

So after waking up at sunset, Angela had gone with Ursula down to the clan's rookery; a huge room equipped with two different sets of lights (a row of widely spaced 20-watt bulbs for illuminating at night, and a row of mounted sunlamps that were turned on during the day) and a wall given over to toy shelves. The room was filled with laughing, shouting hatchlings who swarmed around Angela as soon as she stepped inside. It turned out there were only twelve hatchlings, but the way they jumped and clambered about and strewed their toys around, they took up as much space as twenty adults.

She'd been introduced to them all at the big welcoming feast two weeks ago, but since she'd also been introduced to over 100 other people that night, they reintroduced each hatchling, then the rookery keepers themselves. Two of the rookery keepers were her age; Joan and Adelbert, a mated pair. The others were all older; Elizabeth, Joseph, Giselle and Catherine looked to be as old as her father Goliath, while Ursula was at least a generation older.

After the introductions were over, the hatchlings had been told to just go back to their playing, rather than immediately swamp Angela with all their questions of what it had been like to be raised on Avalon and to live in New York. There would be time set aside for answering questions later, after Angela got settled in.

The hatchlings had made various noises of impatience and disappointment, but obediently backed off and went back to playing with Bronx, or with whatever toys they'd had before Angela had walked in. Grateful for the breather, she'd looked over the hatchlings, as well as the rookery keepers, wondering who was related to whom.

With some of the hatchlings, it had been easy to tell. That orange-skinned little female playing with blocks in the corner looked almost exactly like the rookery keeper Joseph would, if he were shrunk to one-third size and had his thick black mane tied back with a bright yellow bow rather than a strip of leather. Angela had previously been introduced to Giselle as mate to Stephen, the second-in-command, so the male hatchling who looked just like Stephen was probably hers. And that blue female hatchling waving a book for Joan to read looked so much like her, with skin a different hue but otherwise the same for wing configurations and for every single facial ridge, that Angela had was willing to bet they were closely related; sisters a generation apart.

But none of the other hatchlings had a definitive resemblance to any of the keepers. Catherine, the stocky bovine gargoyle whose arms were nearly as big around as Angela's thighs, had been at that moment preoccupied in breaking up a squabble over a train set between two hatchlings; one of them was stocky in build and purple like the purple splotches on Catherine's hide, while the other was of the feather-winged bovine build but dark red and downright skinny.

Catherine had settled the squabble quickly enough, and the hatchlings went back to taking turns with the train set. Catherine had walked back in Angela's direction, and Angela had asked with a nod towards the junior train engineers, "Is one of them yours?"

Just then another hatchling had let out a shriek over her doll being yanked away from her. Joseph had sprung up to deal with the transgression, while Catherine flicked an ear at Angela and said, "I didn't quite hear you; what did you say?"

So Angela had spoken a bit louder: "I said, which of them is yours?"

And it so happened that there was a lull in the general noise level just as she'd said those words… and all noise in the room died immediately afterwards. Everyone, rookery keeper and hatchling alike, had turned to stare at her. Even Bronx dropped the stout piece of rope he'd been gripping in his jaws while playing tug-of-war with a hatchling, to stare at her.

There was dead silence for about two seconds before Joseph laughed, a great booming laugh that echoed off the walls. "**_Hahaha_**, what a foolish question! They're _all_ ours!"

"Yes, they're all ours!" Giselle had said with a grin at Angela… one that showed her fangs. "We have a good-sized clan, after all; we haven't had to import any youngsters from those other clans Hudson was talking about!"

"Yes, they're ours… and we're theirs!" Joan had chimed in as she got down on her knees and stretched her arms out. "Who wants a hug?"

"Hey, it's my turn for hugging! Quick, I need an emergency squeezy!" Joseph had said as he got down on his knees as well, throwing his arms out wide. Several hatchlings had laughed and giggled as they piled on him, while a few more went over to hug Joan… and still others went over to Adelbert, who was on his knees complaining that he wanted a turn and besides, his mane itched right where he couldn't get at it, couldn't someone give him a skritching?

The rookery had erupted in a general hug-fest, everyone showing great affection… except for Elizabeth, who'd sidled up to Angela with a smile that had definitely bared her fangs. Under cover of the general noise, she'd whispered, "Angela, dear… if you ever ask that question again, of anyone… you'll be thrown off the estate, guest or no guest. Understand?"

Angela had been both shocked and bewildered. "What? What did I do wrong? What's so--"

"Angela, dear, I just remembered something I forgot to tell you!" Ursula had said as she'd finished her share of hugging and gotten back up. "It's about how we do meals around here; I'll explain it on our way to the kitchen," she'd said as she'd taken Angela by the arm and nearly dragged her out of the rookery.

But instead of going to the kitchen, Ursula had sat Angela down in the room next door and informed Angela that she must never ask that question again, and absolutely not within a hatchling's hearing. "But I don't understand," Angela had protested. "You have humans and gargoyles living side-by-side in this house, and have for generations, so you know how humans raise their families; what's wrong with just admitting that the hatchlings have mothers and fathers as well as rookery keepers?"

"Because there's no 'just' admitting such a thing," Ursula had said with a shake of her head. "As you well know, or you would if you'd been paying attention. I've seen how your Goliath treats you; the one you call 'Father', while he sometimes refers to you as his daughter. I've seen how he treats you differently than the others of your age in your little clan… _and we want none of that here_!"

Angela had just stared at her, too shocked to say anything for the moment, so Ursula had sighed and went on. "Yes, some of us can tell which hatchling is likely a direct descendant, but we never, _ever_ acknowledge that blood-tie aloud, and we try to forget it exists at all. The humans of our clan know this, and they support our reasons for keeping rookeries instead of families. Especially after seeing what happened when one of our rookery keepers did recognize her own daughter! Let me tell you about a foolish female named Abigail, and what she did to Joan and Adelbert's rookery generation…"

Abigail had been one of the clan's rookery keepers; a pink-skinned female who had been very fond of going to New Orleans and mingling with the human populace whenever she had the chance; not only on Mardi Gras, but whenever she could get her hands on a hat and coat large enough to hide her wings and pointed ears. Abigail had laid her first egg in the rookery clutch that eventually hatched Joan, Adelbert and the others their age.

As soon as the eggs in that rookery clutch had hatched, Abigail had noticed that the infant gargoyle Marie looked just like her mate Remigius, a male with a more-or-less human face and white feathered scalp and wings. The biggest difference besides gender was that Remigius was sky-blue, while Marie had peach-pink, Caucasian-like skin coloring… the same shade as Abigail's skin. Abigail recognized Marie for her daughter just as a human would, and subconsciously favored the hatchling as a result... spoiling her, as it turned out.

When the hatchlings squabbled, Abigail was usually the quickest to intervene if Marie was involved, and she almost invariably took Marie's side of the squabble unless that youngster was blatantly in the wrong. At quiet and cuddle times, Abigail told Marie that she was just the bestest little hatchling in the whole wide world… and Marie believed it, since Abigail didn't say that sort of thing to any of the other hatchlings. It was a clear favoritism, and started so young that all the hatchlings just accepted it without any protest, as the natural way of things.

Ursula had seen what was happening, and tried to forestall it, giving Abigail more than one stern talking to and threatening to report her to the clan leader if she didn't knock it off and start acting like a proper rookery keeper. Each time, Abigail would apologize, be standoffish towards Marie for a couple of days, then start favoring her again… and Marie gradually turned into a self-centered brat who believed that she really was the best of the lot, and deserved every bit of praise bestowed upon her by Abigail and more.

Ursula hadn't even tried to negate Abigail's influence by tearing Marie down as much as Abigail was boosting her up; that would have been incredibly wrong. Instead, Ursula and the other three keepers in the rookery for those years had tried hard to give the other hatchlings just as much attention and affection as Marie was getting… but with four people minding eleven rambunctious hatchlings, the math was against them. And calling in the hatchlings' biological parents to help take care of their children was out of the question; even if they could be completely sure of who belonged to whom, not all of the gargoyles who'd bred and laid eggs during the prior breeding season were still alive. And of those who lived, some were simply too hot-tempered or ill-humored to be good caretakers of youngsters; forcing them into constant contact with the hatchlings would be risking instances of abuse.

In 1972, that generation of hatchlings had left the rookery in order to begin their formal schooling and apprenticeships. But by then the damage had been done; everyone had thought Marie was the finest, especially Marie herself, and she had become the Queen Bee of her generation. And even though Abigail had remained in the rookery to tend the newly-laid eggs, she kept finding excuses to visit Marie, and coo over her and tell Marie that she was the best and deserved everything. That had only reinforced the hierarchy among the hatchlings that Marie had set up, that left poor Martha and Rebecca on the bottom rungs of the social ladder.

Abigail died in 1974, on the 4th of July; on the 3rd, she and Ursula had gotten into another argument about both Marie and the latest egg Abigail had laid (and was already paying excess attention to), and on the 4th she had evidently decided to go for a long glide rather than face the head rookery keeper again. Gliding even though it was common practice to stay grounded on that night of all nights, with all the Independence Day fireworks being shot into the air… Her mate Remigius went after her, but caught up with her just in time to see her get hit by a fireworks rocket, and killed almost instantly.

"Marie lost her favorite supporter, but by then, it was too late. The patterns were set, and Marie stayed the unofficial leader of her generation… the worst kind of leader, who thought only of herself instead of her kin's welfare, caring only when it reflected on her. Even now that her leadership over them has been shattered, since her temporary banishment in 1988—you've heard that story by now, yes?—she is still, and will likely always be, a spoiled brat who thinks she is entitled to everything she wants."

Ursula had finished with, "So, I trust you can see now why, as closely as we live with the humans of this clan, we do not share all of their ways and never will. And why I'm now asking you to avoid, for as long as you're in the rookery, referring to Goliath as your father. It may be hard, asking you to watch your words when talking about your clan and your travels, but I trust you can see now why it's necessary?"

Angela had wordlessly nodded, and Ursula had patted her hand and gotten up, saying that she was going back into the rookery and Angela could rejoin them whenever she was ready. And since then, Angela had been sitting in silence, thinking about everything she'd just been told. Thinking about Marie and the preferential treatment she'd received from Abigail… and the father-to-daughter treatment that Angela had demanded from Goliath, and which he had eventually given her.

Did that treatment, that... favoritism, such as the way he worried over her injuries far more than when the others got hurt, for example… did that make Angela herself a spoiled brat, by gargoyle standards?

She got up from the chair and almost went to the kitchen to ask Broadway what he thought… then decided that she didn't really want to know what his answer would be. Instead, she squared her shoulders and went back into the rookery.

She'd been dreading the looks she'd been sure would come her way from the other rookery keepers, but they all seemed to have decided to forgive and forget; Ursula must have had a quiet word with them before she'd come back in.

It was over a half-hour later that Elizabeth pulled her aside and quietly informed her that, instead of spending only two nights in the rookery, she'd be spending most of every night for the next two weeks in with the hatchlings. "Ursula and I agree on this, and I'm quite sure your Goliath and Hudson will agree as well. Even if you never become a rookery keeper, you need to learn how hatchlings should be raised, and how they must _not_ be raised. Before you unwittingly turn your clan's first rookery clutch into a mirror of Joan and Adelbert's generation, and give your clan another Marie."

"All right," Angela mumbled while looking at her toe-talons. Then she glanced up to add, "But I'll need time each night to help Broadway with his exercises!"

"And you shall have it. You're free to leave the rookery after three a.m. for every night after tonight, though you should come back before dawn at least twice, to learn effective techniques for putting the hatchlings to perch. Now, story time is fast approaching; would you like to tell them a tale or two of your hatchlinghood on Avalon? Benedict mentioned that you told him about a herd of unicorns that lived there…"

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By the end of that first night, Angela fully understood what was meant by the human saying "a bundle of frazzled nerves." Taking care of a dozen hatchlings was exhausting work! They had been almost constantly demanding her attention, asking for stories or help with making crafts or just for her to "Lookit, lookit me!" as they did everything but dance on the ceiling.

If it hadn't been for the other rookery keepers repeatedly stepping in to take care of things or at least divert the hatchlings' attention, Angela would have run screaming into the night. And Ursula told her that tonight had likely been the easiest it would ever get, because all the rookery keepers had been on hand for the occasion; usually at least two of the seven were out of the rookery, enjoying their rotating nights off. "Tomorrow Joan and Adelbert will have the night off, so you can expect to be called on more often… though perhaps once the sheer novelty of your presence and your unusual background wears off, the hatchlings will focus on you less and return to their normal routine."

Angela fervently said she hoped so, and Ursula nodded in sympathy before continuing, "Now please, dear, come out of that corner; it really doesn't look right for you to be constantly backing yourself into it. Take these flashcards and go tutor Denis on math; he still hasn't quite memorized the basic multiplication tables…"

Finally, dawn approached, and everyone prepared for a well-earned day's rest. As the toys were all put away and the hatchlings were coaxed or ordered to their perches, Angela looked down at herself and wondered if that—what was that sticky stuff on her tunic, anyway?—if it would come off when she shed her stone skin next sunset.

She also wondered how her three human guardians had managed to survive raising **_thirty-six_ **hatchlings to maturity, and if their ordeals and accomplishment had been enough to qualify them for sainthood.

Next: _Down in the Bayou_


	3. Down in the Bayou

**9.3: Down in the Bayou**

Broadway left the kitchen at 3 a.m., and met Angela as she was coming out of the rookery; now that her first night of rookery duty was over, she was allowed to leave after the hatchlings' second Story Hour to help him with his exercise. They walked together to their favorite spot near the edge of the bayou, next to a downed cypress tree whose trunk made a suitable bench for resting on.

Broadway grimly went through all the wing exercises that the doctors had recommended, with Angela offering encouragement when he faltered and noting that he really did seem to be improving, regaining strength and flexibility. He was able to extend his left wing just a fraction farther that evening than before, and for the second set he was able to do the 8-count slow extending and furling of the wing without faltering even once.

"I'm sure when Guilliame sees how well you're doing, he'll clear you for short glides on the estate! We should go see him when we're done with the Chase tonight," Angela said with a smile, as she sat next to him on the cypress log after the last wing exercise was finished.

"Yeah, sure… after I shower and eat, that is," Broadway panted as he wiped the sweat of painful exertion off his brow ridge. "I'm already hungry; aren't you?"

"No, I ate with the rookery keepers and hatchlings earlier. You helped Martha bring the trays into the rookery, remember? I'm surprised that you didn't grab a bite for yourself at the time," Angela commented. But when Broadway only grunted in response and glanced away from her, her tone became suspicious. "Broadway… you did eat then, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah. But it was only a bowl or two of gumbo," Broadway protested.

"A bowl… or two?"

"Okay, three bowls. But that was hours ago!" he said defensively.

Angela sighed and shook her head, speaking in that tone that Broadway had already decided he really, _really_ didn't like. "Broadway, you **_know_** you need to lose weight, and that means eating less as well as exercising more! Do you want to fit into that suit being made for you or not? Do you want to become my mate or not?"

"You know I do! I just…" He stopped and clamped his mouth shut for a few seconds, holding back what he'd almost said out loud, then sighed. "All right, I'll try harder to cut back."

"Just 'try harder'?"

"I _will_ cut back! I promise. I'll do my best to lose the full eighty pounds... But darn it, I wish you wouldn't put such a tough condition on our relationship!" as he glared at her, finally unable to hold the words back any longer. "True love is _supposed_ to be unconditional!"

For a long moment Angela said nothing. Then she sighed, "Broadway, there's the breeding flight to think about! I can glide faster than you even without the surge of energy I'll get when my time comes, remember? When you lose the weight, you'll be able to glide faster and farther, to keep up with me when it's time to breed our egg. And besides, it's doctor's orders; Dr. Lacey said she wanted you to lose at least a hundred pounds! Remember the diet she was talking about putting you on, just before we came down here?"

Broadway remembered, and shuddered. "Even _Lexington_ eats more than what she recommended! And besides measuring everything out by the ounce, the food on that list she made was so plain, so… even back in the old clan, we usually ate better than that!"

"So at least I'm not telling you just what you can and can't eat… just asking you not to eat so much of it," as she planted a kiss on his cheek. "And it really is for your own good, Broadway, my dear heart. Don't ever forget that."

They sat there for a few more minutes, holding hands and murmuring sweet nothings to each other, until they were both smiling again. "And now, it's time for the _fun_ exercise," Angela said decisively as she got up from the log. "Ready? You'll start from right here, this time… five seconds from **_now_**!" as she dashed into the swamp.

That was how they always began The Chase; with Broadway giving Angela a five seconds head start. Even though she was naturally a faster runner than he was, she insisted on having those five seconds, after what had happened the first time they'd tried this new form of exercise. Broadway had almost caught up to her, when she'd tripped and fallen over a cypress knee not 30 yards into the bayou, before the chase had barely begun. A good head start allowed her some time for tripping and stumbling while finding the best path, when venturing into new territory.

The bayou was largely swampland; grassy or mossy hillocks with cypress trees and other native flora poking up here and there in acre after acre of watery muck. Most humans made their way through the bayou in pirogues, modified canoes that were propelled by poling more often than rowing. In areas with fewer trees and more open water, one often saw airboats or 'swamp-skimmers', steel rafts with huge propeller fans mounted inside protective cages that used air power to push them across the water. But the bayou outside the clan's estate was far too thick with trees for airboats to be of any use; pirogues were the most viable option. For humans, that is; gargoyles could simply glide above the trees until they spotted prey, or found a good perch above a game trail. But since Broadway couldn't glide for now, he and Angela had to conduct the chase on foot.

Travel through the bayou without a pirogue was hardly easy going. They were splashing through shallow waters or slogging through mud more often than they were on semi-dry land. But over the centuries the wildlife had laid game trails that a reasonably skilled hunter could follow, particularly if that hunter had a gargoyle's keen vision. They kept to those game trails most of the time, trusting that the local wildlife would clear the path when they heard them coming. Even alligators, the biggest local predators, generally veered away from gargoyles coming their way… particularly when coming in fast and loud, like the two of them were doing now. In fact, they'd already had complaints from a couple of the New Orleans Clan's hunting parties about all the noise they were making during the chase, scaring the game away.

Some small part of Broadway's mind recalled those complaints as he tried to dodge around a small cypress sapling in his path but didn't quite make it, and broke it right in half as he ran over it. Some small part of him noted the snapping and splintering noise with chagrin, but the rest of him just didn't care. Every other part of him was focused on chasing Angela, his mate-to-be.

It was the only way he could keep up his enthusiasm for the full hour or more that the chase would last, before Angela changed course and led him back to finish the run at the edge of the estate. Angela had promised to be his mate, once he was fit enough for her. And every time he stumbled or his energy flagged, he spurred himself onward with that most primitive of urges; the male's urge to chase his mate and breed with her…

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Brooklyn turned to listen for a moment to the sounds of splashing and crackling of underbrush being trampled, coming from an area to the west. "Angela and Broadway," he said quietly to Yvette, who was perched in the tree next to him overlooking a game trail.

Yvette nodded in response, then pointed to another source of disturbance, also from a point west of them but much closer. After another second a marsh deer came leaping down the trail; running away from all the noise that Angela and Broadway were making on their chase.

Yvette gave Brooklyn a shrug and a grin that showed her fangs, then leaped down from the tree to land squarely on the back of the young buck as it ran past. It sprawled to the ground and she rode it down, while reaching for its neck. Grip-twist-snap of breaking vertebrae, and the buck was dead in seconds.

Yvette looked up at Brooklyn still perched in the tree, and he applauded her. "Nicely done! Um, _tres bien_!"

"_Merci_!" Yvette said with a smile. "And I think this is enough for tonight, don't you?"

Brooklyn agreed. In the hours since dusk that he and Yvette had been hunting, they'd already brought down a deer, two raccoons, four rabbits, three nutria and a full half-dozen opossums. The game bag they'd stashed high in a tree next to the first deer carcass was full to bursting; they would probably have to make two trips, to bring the second deer back to the estate for cooking up as well.

Yesterday's outing with Martha had been far different; she'd shown up for their 'hunting date' in a swimsuit and carrying modified swimming trunks for Brooklyn to wear, as well as a pair of nets and other fishing gear. She'd shown him how to catch crawfish, crabs, bullfrogs, wide-mouth bass and catfish, all plentiful in the bayou. Halfway through the night they'd even caught and killed a seven-foot-long alligator, who had foolishly tried to challenge them for their nets full of seafood. Brooklyn hadn't done much food-gathering from the sea around Castle Wyvern back in the old clan, so it had been a real learning experience—and fairly fun, once he'd gotten past the distaste of having swamp muck spattered all over his brick-red hide.

Martha had been an excellent teacher, and Brooklyn had enjoyed learning from and working with her. But Yvette preferred the mammalian prey that Brooklyn was more used to hunting, and they'd easily fallen into the rhythm that hunting teams had been using for millennia, of flanking prey and flushing or chasing it into the partner's waiting talons.

The sightseeing trips into New Orleans had been fun, but this was the sort of 'dating' that Brooklyn had experienced in the old clan. Hunting together to bring in food for the clan, then having a private feast with a portion the pair had saved for themselves.

There'd been plenty of opportunities to patrol and protect their territory in Manhattan, but darn few opportunities for hunting, other than for rats and pigeons. Brooklyn hadn't realized until recently how much he'd missed the thrill of the hunt. It would be hard to give all this up again when they returned to Manhattan…

But Yvette had said something to him after she'd dragged her kill up into the tree they were perched in, and he'd missed what she'd said. "Pardon? Sorry, I was thinking about how much I've missed hunting these last few years. You were saying?"

"I said," Yvette said with a worried frown in the direction that they'd heard Angela and Broadway running, "I do hope that your clan members remember to stay within the area that Adam said they could chase about in."

"Worried about them frightening away more game? It's only for a short while every night; shouldn't be long enough to make any animal leave its home permanently. And there's plenty of swamp outside that area for everyone else to hunt in."

"It's not that. For nearly a hundred years, we've had no one bitten by poisonous snakes; we…" Yvette gave him a quick but searching look, then said, "You can keep a secret, yes?"

"Sure. A secret about snakes?"

"In a way. Only the clan's hunters are told of this secret; you must never tell anyone of this, not even another gargoyle, for it mustn't get back to our human clan members. …Decades ago, we had a sorceress in our clan. Yes, we are all Catholics, but we know the world is far greater and has more mysteries than the Church would have us believe, and we know that not all magic is evil or of Satan."

"No argument there," Brooklyn replied. "You probably already heard that one of the humans who raised Angela was a magus. So, you had a magic-user too?"

"Yes; you might have noticed her statue in the graveyard when we held that funeral last week. Her name was Anastasia, and she could cast spells on the wind and water. The story goes that when she was a hatchling, barely out of the rookery, a male from her generation was bitten by a cottonmouth while on his first hunt and died of it. So in revenge she cast a spell that somehow banished all poisonous snakes from the bayou, for a full twenty miles around the estate."

"Wait a second… I've seen at least three snakes during our hunt tonight—look, there's one in that tree right there!" as Brooklyn pointed at a thin green snake draped across the branch of a sycamore tree not twenty feet away from them.

"That's a rough green snake; it has no venom. We have green snakes and rat snakes and coachwhips and nonvenomous water snakes aplenty, but no cottonmouths, copperheads or coral snakes ever come within twenty miles of the estate. But outside that area, hunters must take care indeed. Robert and Rebecca know about the spell, and I am sure they have warned your brother Lexington already about the added danger outside our usual hunting territory. But I don't think anyone has warned Angela and Broadway, and if they chase each other too far…"

"Not likely," Brooklyn said with a shake of his head. "I heard them running around nearly every night while I was--um, in mourning for Brentwood, and the chase usually doesn't last more than an hour. And while any of us could _glide_ farther than twenty miles in an hour, going on foot in this terrain, they probably won't go even a quarter of that distance. Though it probably wouldn't hurt to warn them anyway, to be on the safe side. I can pull Angela aside before dawn and let her know that she needs to steer clear of certain areas that have poisonous snakes in them, without saying anything about the sorceress. Or you can tell them yourself, when they come in to see the fancy clothes you're making for Broadway."

Yvette made a grimace and a harrumphing sound, but said nothing. Brooklyn cocked a brow ridge at her and asked, "What? Something bothering you?"

"I should not say… but since you asked, I will!" Yvette turned to him with the look of someone who needed to vent, before she exploded. "The too-small wedding clothes are a _stupid_ idea, and every time Angela sees them she makes it worse! She saw the pattern pieces I put up on the male mannequin and told me to take them all off, and remove even _more_ padding from the mannequin! Now it is nearly as slim as you, Brooklyn! And Broadway will _never_ fit the clothes she wants to put on him, unless he becomes deathly ill and loses good muscle as well as fat!"

Brooklyn had actually scooted back on the branch at her vehemence, and now he looked at her wide-eyed. "Um… have you tried to explain that to her?"

"She will not listen! When I tried, she accused me of trying to interfere with her relationship with him, and stalked out of the room… and I later heard that she went down to the kitchen, and made Broadway push away the bowl of stew he'd been eating! Martha has had to let him sneak in food between meals, to silence his poor stomach when it growls so loudly she can hear it from inside the larder! I do not know just who Angela is trying to make Broadway into, but if someone does not talk sense into her, she will starve him to death!"

"Okay, okay!" Brooklyn held up his hands in a placating manner. "I'll talk to her, or better yet I'll talk to Goliath, and let him talk to her. He can usually get her to see reason… except where her mother is concerned, that is."

"Her mother?" Yvette gave him a querying glance as she hoisted the game bag, preparing to glide with it back to the estate.

"Yeah, Demona." Brooklyn decided that now it was his turn to vent, as he carried the first deer back to the mansion. "You just would not believe all the horrible things that psycho has done, and the even worse things she's tried to do… and Angela still wants to see her, and even worse, to persuade her to come back to the clan! Like I'd perch anywhere within seven leagues of that…"

00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00

And Brooklyn honestly meant to talk to Goliath, but when they returned to the estate Goliath was inside the cottage that he and Elisa had stayed in last week, and Adam told Brooklyn it would not be wise to go in and disturb him with news of anything less than utter calamity. He would be either talking with his mate on the cell phone, and not want to be interrupted… or still waiting for her call, and growing more anxious and irritable as he waited.

"And either way, going in there would be a bad idea," Brooklyn agreed. "Well, this isn't urgent; I can wait until he comes out again."

So in the meantime, he and Yvette brought their kills in to the castle kitchen, where Martha received them with thanks and put them in the clan's giant walk-in refrigerator for use in the next night's meals. Yvette saved a haunch of the second deer for her and Brooklyn's private feast (for which Martha agreeably provided a bottle of wine and some easy side dishes), and they had such a good time, roasting the meat and eating and talking about this and that… The thought of talking to Goliath just slipped his mind for the next few hours. He remembered when he saw Goliath again, as everyone gathered on the perches for dawn, but by then it was too late. Well, Brooklyn thought as he struck a pose and prepared to turn to stone, there was always the next night.

Next: _Hard Rain, Hard Words_


	4. Hard Rain, Hard Words

**9.4: Hard Rain, Hard Words**

When the gargoyles awoke at dusk, the sky was pouring rain; coming down so hard that they could see scarcely 20 yards in front of them.

Everyone had been forewarned that rain was expected; the clan here kept a close eye on weather reports, particularly during hurricane season. Having been forewarned, Brooklyn had deliberately hung his head down when posing at dawn, not wanting to wake up to a gullet-full of water and spend time coughing and choking instead of roaring a greeting to the night. But the sheer volume of water coming down was a little unnerving; it was as if someone had upended an entire lake onto the gargoyles. It sluiced the stone shards off him almost before he could shake them off, and soaked his woolen loincloth through within seconds.

By unspoken agreement, everyone rushed down from the roof and inside the mansion, grabbing towels from a large stack that had been left at the roof entrance for them. After toweling his skin and mane dry and stepping into a bathroom for a few moments to wring out his loincloth, Brooklyn sought out Isabel, his scheduled date for the night.

Isabel was found in one of the clan's rooms that had a roaring fire going in the fireplace, carefully patting her fur and feathers dry with a grimace of distaste. Brooklyn wondered briefly whether the grimace was due to the bother of drying herself off, or due to the close proximity of Marie. Marie was also drying her feathers off, while informing Isabel with a look of sympathy (that didn't quite mask her evident glee) that it was too bad that her date with Brooklyn was cancelled.

"Who told you it was cancelled?" Brooklyn asked as he came up, giving Marie an arched brow ridge as she turned with a start to look at him. "I certainly didn't cancel it."

"W-well, obviously, it's cancelled due to weather!" Marie said with a shrug. "All the game's going to be holed up in their dens, waiting for the rain to stop, but it's not going to stop for hours yet. And this date is supposed to be a hunting trip, so what's the point of going out if you're not going to catch anything?"

Brooklyn had to admit that Marie had a point. But then Isabel said, "All the land-based game is going to be holed up, true enough, but all the fish, frogs and crawfish will still be out there waiting for us to catch them. And Martha took you fishing two nights ago, right?" she said to Brooklyn.

"Yeah, she did. But I know you don't much like getting wet, and even in dry weather there's a real good chance of getting wet while fishing." Brooklyn had gotten wet twice during his and Martha's hunting trip; once while dealing with the gator that they'd caught, and once when he'd just plain overbalanced while netting some fish and fallen out of the pirogue. He didn't admit that to Isabel, but he did tell her, "So I'm not going to insist we go out to the bayou tonight; we could just hang around in your workshop instead."

"That's _not_ what everyone agreed on for the second date!" Marie said in outrage.

"Says the female who decided to go on a picnic instead of a hunt?" Isabel said pointedly.

Marie gave Isabel a red-hot glare and low growl, but Isabel ignored that as she said to Brooklyn, "Believe me, I'm more than tempted by your offer. But Ursula was right when she said that we need to see how we work together as well as play together. And it takes a lot of hunting and fishing to feed this clan; we just don't get enough income from day jobs and selling books and artwork to keep everyone fed as well as housed and clothed. There's at least one fishing party getting their gear together right now; if we only went out for food in good weather, the clan would starve to death. Besides," she said with a shrug, "there are going to be plenty of nights in the future when I won't be in a good mood for one reason or another; you might as well have forewarning of my moods now, rather than get an unpleasant surprise later."

"All good points," Brooklyn admitted. Then he shrugged and said with a wry grin, "Okay, let's go out and be cranky together. But before we go, I need to talk to Goliath about something. Where can we meet, in about twenty minutes?"

After agreeing on a meeting place, Brooklyn went to find Goliath. But he caught up with his clan leader just as Goliath and Hudson were about to enter another room of the mansion, along with Adam and several of the elderly New Orleans Clan members, both gargoyles and humans. "Can it wait, Brooklyn?" Goliath asked him. "This meeting has been postponed twice already, first while I was… indisposed, and then to wait for two of the local elders to return from patrolling duty in New Orleans."

"Yeah, it can wait," Brooklyn said, thinking that there wasn't much chance of Broadway starving to death in the next 24 hours. "Is this meeting something I should be involved in or at least aware of, as second-in-command?"

"Not really, laddie; if something does arise that'll concern ye, we'll be sure to let ye know," Hudson assured him. "Go on your date with… Isabel, is it? Go enjoy yerselves."

Brooklyn shrugged and went off to find Isabel and begin their fishing trip. He didn't know how much enjoyment they'd get out of it, going out in pouring rain, but it should at least prove interesting. And maybe they'd come across another gator that wanted their catch; Martha had been pleased and a little impressed that he'd learned so quickly how to catch and kill that gator the night before, and he wouldn't mind an opportunity to show off in front of Isabel too.

**00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00**

After Brooklyn left, Goliath and Hudson entered the chamber, and Adam barred the door behind them. "This room has the best soundproofing in the house," he told them. "We'll be able to talk as freely and bluntly as needed."

For blunt talk was needed that night. The leaders and elders of the two clans were meeting that night, to discuss the potential breeding situation… and all possible solutions.

Ignatius, the eldest gargoyle of either clan, summed the problem up succinctly: "No matter which _fille_ Brooklyn chooses, we still gonna have t'ree females wit'out mates. Dat's de problem. And de way I see it, we got t'ree solutions." He held up one hand with the thumb-talon folded down, and ticked off the three solutions on the other three talons: "We tell some couples they should oughtta become trios. Dat ain't gonna be easy; people used to sharing food, not mates. Gonna be lots of jealousy and misery for a while… but we been having dat anyway, wit' de unmated folks."

"Another way would be the traditional Breeding Choice," Hudson muttered. "But with _three_ unmated females…"

Adam shook his head decisively. "Out of the question. Not for all three; there would be blood spilled, guaranteed. There might well even be death in the sky before the Breeding Moon was over."

"So second solution's no good," Ignatius agreed, before indicating the third talon. "Third solution: We go get us some other unmated males, an' see if we can match 'em up wit our _filles_. An' dat Labyrinth Clan dat's still back in New York, dey got unmated males."

"Three unmated males remaining, as well as one female who's unmated, despite her current egg-carrying state," Goliath said with a sigh as he rubbed his forehead. "But they are… _yes_, they are gargoyles, and physically capable of breeding, but…"

"But inside they're still hatchlings," Hudson said bluntly. "Knowing so little of the world, that they didn't even know Delilah was egg-carrying until we explained it to them. Aye, they're capable of learning, and they _are_ learning; in another ten years or so they'll likely be grown in mind as well as body. But the Breeding Moon isn't ten years away!"

"So they could be brought down for breeding flights, but trying to arrange true matings between them and our females would be disastrous," Adam concluded.

"Disastrous is almost too mild a word," Father Maurice said with a grim look. "And I dare say even bringing them down for breeding would result in ruin. You've told us of how the cloned gargoyle Thailog, whose mind was grown to maturity but turned evil in the process—which surprises me not at all, by the way; his creation was truly an abomination. It's also not surprising that he chose to repeat the process to create more creatures like himself; abomination breeds more abomination…"

Hudson growled as his eyes flickered white for a moment. "_Watch yer words, priest_! I'll have ye know that the Labyrinth Clan has a Catholic priest visiting them often, a Father John Sullivan, an' he's convinced that the clones have souls as much as we do! Aye, the way they were created was wrong, but they are _**not**_ abominations!"

The human elder Amelie stepped between them and raised her hands in a placating gesture. "Peace, please… And if the clones are not abominations, then they are still _innocents_. Children in mind and heart. And to… to take advantage of that innocence… It would be too close to pedophilia!" And everyone in the room shuddered in revulsion at the thought.

Then Benedict spoke up. "Actually, I believe there is a fourth solution. One that I'm rather surprised you two haven't mentioned already," he said with a look at Goliath and Hudson.

Goliath and Hudson looked at each other, shrugged, then turned back to Benedict. "An' what solution would that be?" Hudson asked.

"Angela told me tales of her hatching clan, on Avalon. And I've double-checked my notes; that clan hatched nineteen males, sixteen females, and one watchbeast. And while she was reluctant to talk about who was mated to whom, Angela did confirm that not all her rookery sisters had chosen mates by the time she left to join Goliath's clan in our world. And even if they have since then, nineteen males to fifteen females leaves…"

"At least four unmated males!" Adam said with a smile. "Excellent!"

"Who should provide even more genetic variety to the next generation than clones of other gargoyles would," the elder Veronica said with satisfaction.

Ignatius snorted. "Yah, but wit' our luck, dey'll all four of dem be gay as Robert."

"Which would mean a potential mate for Robert, which _**I**_ will not begrudge him," Goliath said as he swept the room with a stern look…one that several of the New Orleans Clan members refused to meet. "But I rather doubt that's the case. I've never heard of a rookery generation with more than two who preferred their own gender for mates, and even two at a time are rare."

"So, how do we get to Avalon and bring those unmated males here?" Adam asked.

"In theory, it should be easy enough," Goliath said. "I know the spell that will trigger the mists of Avalon to transport us there, from any body of water; even the bayou. But in practice… none of my clan have been there since Oberon assumed the throne of Avalon. And the last time we saw Oberon, when he came to Manhattan…" He shook his head. "It was not a pleasant reunion."

"You think this Oberon would not allow you to set foot on Avalon?" Adam asked.

Goliath sighed. "I honestly do not know. It shames me to admit that none of our clan have really thought about or spoken of the situation for the clan on Avalon, since leaving them for the second time."

"Now that's not quite right, lad," Hudson said as he stroked his beard in thought. "Angela mentioned them herself once, that night she gave the Trio a good talking to about the right way to court a female. But before then, or since… Aye, whenever someone starts talking about Avalon, she finds a way to change the subject. I wonder…"

"Well, whatever Angela's reluctance stems from, she'll have to set it aside for the good of the clans," Adam said firmly. "I want more information on who's unmated on that island, before we start arranging a voyage there."

"Why not arrange for her to sit with me and let me chronicle more stories?" Benedict offered. "There's a huge gap in her tales, from about the time they would have reached puberty, to the attack of the Archmage and Goliath's arrival to save them from destruction. In the course of chronicling their lives during those twelve years, I could learn quite a bit about who's unmated but still interested in females."

Adam rubbed his chin in thought. "There's not as much time each night for her to tell tales of her old clan as there was before. Ursula and Elizabeth have insisted that Angela spend several hours in the rookery each night for the next few weeks. They're trying hard to break her of the habit of assigning so much importance to blood ties… Which I'm surprised you encouraged her in," he said in an aside to Goliath.

"I did my best to _discourage_ her at first," Goliath said with crossed arms and a defensive look. "But she was raised by humans, with human attitudes… and Elisa, who already held my heart by then, supported her view more than mine." He looked embarrassed. "So I gave in, and treated her as I'd seen humans treat their children. And I must admit that I now see her as _my_ daughter, rather than just a daughter of the clan."

"Having a human mate does require adjusting to human perspectives, more so than when just sharing a clan with them," Benedict said sympathetically. "Anastasia once confided in me that she'd had to make some adjustments when she took a human mate."

Goliath nodded to Benedict in silent thanks for his support, then told Adam, "But your keepers are right; that attitude can't be allowed to extend to another rookery generation."

"Just as well that Elisa's not hearing any of this," Hudson muttered quietly to Goliath, before speaking to the room at large. "Aye, Angela will be in the rookery every night, but her shift there ends when their second Story Hour is over; after that, she goes out to help Broadway with his exercising. I'll talk to her and see that she spends more time with Benedict, telling more tales of her clan, after the night's exercise is over."

"Excellent!" Benedict said with a smile. "If I can have her for, say, two hours every night, I should be able to squeeze plenty of information out of her in the next few weeks."

"Then we'll meet again in two weeks, so Benedict can share what he's learned with the rest of us," Adam said decisively. "And if there's enough good news, then we can begin planning a journey to Avalon. Now, while we're all gathered here, is there any more clan business to discuss before meeting is adjourned?"

**00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00**

Angela had been more than happy to step out of the rookery with Hudson for a little while. But that cheeriness faded when he explained what he wanted her to do; to tell more of her hatching clan's tales to Benedict. "Do I have to?" she said with visible reluctance.

"What's wrong, lass? Benedict isn't that hard to talk to, is he? I heard ye willingly spent three more nights translating old texts for him, after that one night of telling tales, so he can't be that difficult to work with."

"It's not Benedict himself," Angela admitted. "Hudson, I… really don't like talking about Avalon, and what it was like growing up there."

"We've noticed that," Hudson commented with a sage nod of his head, deciding not to mention the fact that he'd only truly noticed it an hour ago. "But why?"

"I… it makes me homesick. I miss Avalon a lot, and whenever I talk or even think about… about my hatching clan, I start thinking about going back there to live. But my place is here now, right?" as she gave him an almost challenging look.

"Of course, lass!" Hudson hastened to assure her. "But I'm still asking ye to talk about them; to tell Benedict everything ye can remember, both good and bad. The clans have reason to want to know more about your rookery kin."

"But why? What reason?" Angela asked, throwing her hands in the air. "Why do you…" Then her eyes narrowed. "The other females; whichever ones are left over after Brooklyn makes his choice. You want to match them with my rookery brothers who are still unmated!"

"That's the idea, lass. We--"

"It's a _**horrible**_ idea!" Angela shouted right in his face, her wings flaring in challenge. "It'll never work!"

Hudson realized he'd stepped back a pace in surprise at her vehemence. Then he found himself stepping forward, his wings flaring as a growl began to build… But he silenced the growl and refurled his wings. Beating Angela down for acting like that towards her clan elder was not the best course of action at the moment. Instead, he kept a mild, steady tone as he asked, "An' why wouldn't it work, lass? Explain your reasoning to this old male."

"I--" Angela abruptly realized what she'd been doing and shrank back in on herself, wrapping her wings around her shoulders and cringing back a pace with a look of embarrassed, abject apology on her face. "I'm sorry…"

Hudson kept his tone mild. "An' I'll accept yer apology… after I hear yer explanation for why 'tis such a horrible idea."

"I…" Angela looked at the floor, then at the wall to her left, and finally back at Hudson as she said, "Because of the time differential! An hour spent there is a full day and night passing in this world, and a full year out here is only a fortnight on Avalon! If those females went there to choose mates, by the time they learned enough about my brothers and vice versa to choose wisely, they'd have missed the Breeding Moon out here! And the Breeding Moon on Avalon won't happen for decades yet, by our calendar… IF it can even happen there at all!"

"Aye, ye're right about any females going there having precious little time to choose. Which is why ye need to tell us, and them, as much as possible about the males that are available. If the females have any sense, they'll set their talons afore arrival for the males that, from what you have to say, would likely be good matches for them. Martha, for instance… she should be looking for a male that's kindly to others, with a good sense of humor and a great fondness for food. Are any of yer brothers like that?" And when Angela started to reply, he forestalled her with a raised hand as he said, "Nay, don't tell me; tell Benedict. Tell him everything. That be an order, Angela."

"Yes, elder," Angela said with downcast eyes. Then she looked up again. "Right now?"

"No, not right now; _after_ yer time in the rookery tonight, unlearning yer human ideas about having parents for hatchlings," Hudson said as he waggled a disapproving talon at her. "An' after ye spend some time with Broadway exercising, if ye like. Benedict asked for two full hours a night of chronicling yer stories for the next two weeks; I'm thinking it won't take that much time to talk about the brothers who are still unmated, so ye might as well talk about all of them, and yer sisters too. Tell their tales; share and honor yer memories of them an' yer guardians. Ye can stand a little homesickness for a while."

**00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00**

Ursula stood in an alcove near the entrance to the rookery, just out of sight of where Hudson was talking to Angela but well within hearing. She nodded in satisfaction at Hudson's words, and Angela's reluctant agreement to comply. The elders had done all they dared attempt, under the circumstances. Now it was all up to _her_…

**00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00**

_Next: Blood in the Water_


	5. Blood in the Water

**9.5: Blood in the Water**

Isabel and Brooklyn had donned waterproof ponchos, large enough to slip over their wings, and heavy-duty plastic "trousers" that were baggy enough to accommodate gargoyle legs and slip their tails inside too. But they got soaked to the skin anyway; the rain was just coming down too hard, and determined to seep inside everywhere possible.

But they'd caught enough seafood over the last few hours to make it worth the trouble; the buckets in the pirogue were full of fish and crawfish, and a few frogs that had been gigged or netted before they could hop away. "Frog's legs really are tasty if they're done right, and Martha does them right," Isabel commented as she plucked a still-twitching frog off the gig, a slender metal spear with a barbed tip, and dropped it into the covered bucket.

Brooklyn had never eaten frog legs before in his life, but he supposed that the clan's habit of eating them might have come from their centuries-old French background, since the French were sort-of famous for the dish. "And what about snails? Do you guys eat snails, too?"

Isabel replied with a twitch of her feline whiskers, "Only when they're in season."

Brooklyn blinked. "Snails have seasons?" But before he could find out whether or not she was joking, he noticed movement in the water off to port. "Hey, I think we've got company!"

The rain was hitting the water hard enough to obscure everything beneath the surface of the already murky water, but there was an unmistakable V of ripples headed roughly in the direction of the pirogue, looking to pass them on the right, and a pair of reptilian lidded eyes just breaching the surface near the tip of the V. Gator!

Before coming down to visit the New Orleans Clan, Brooklyn wouldn't have taken on a gator in the water by himself, not even on a bet from his brothers. There was taking risks for fun and then there was _being stupid,_ and challenging another predator in the environment that it had spent millions of years adapting to, where it was at the top of the food chain… well, that was just stupid. (Humans did it a lot, but that's because they did most of their killing from a distance with guns, and that was no honorable way to fight or hunt.) Responsible hunters who had good reasons to keep on living didn't do stupid stuff; not when there was any other way, or any other prey available for feeding the clan.

But in the time he'd been down here, he'd learned a few things about hunting the local critters, and that included gators. Alligators were fast swimmers and could do short, deadly fast sprints on land as well, and once they got their jaws on something their grip just couldn't be beat. But while the muscles that _closed_ their jaws were powerful indeed, the muscles that _opened _them again were pretty weak. All it took to hold their mouths shut was a loop of wire, something that even a hatchling gargoyle could break. Once the loop was tight around a gator's snout, its biggest weapon was rendered useless. Then it was just a matter of wrestling with them until you had a good shot at the underbelly, where the hide was thinnest and easiest to claw through; slash deep, kill quick and haul aboard with the rest of the night's catch. So easy, even a human could do it!

With Martha's tutoring two nights ago, Brooklyn had made short work of that seven-foot-long gator they'd encountered. And hadn't Isabel brought along one of those gator-noose loops on a pole with their fishing equipment? Yep, it was right there in the bottom of the pirogue, just waiting for him to use it. He'd been hoping for something to happen that would liven things up and give him a chance to show off at least a little of his regular hunting skills, and here it was!

Isabel said as Brooklyn reached down for the gator-noose, "Looks like Old Moses is hungry again. Keep your tail and wings in the boat, and he should just pass us by; he knows we gargoyles are fellow predators instead of prey. The clan has—what are you doing?"

"Getting a little more variety in our catch," Brooklyn said with a grin as he leaned out on the right side of the pirogue, extending his left wing and swinging his tail to the left to counterbalance, and stuck the loop in the water right in front of that passing V. "Right this way, gator-gator-gator…"

"Get that back in here!" Isabel hissed at him. "We don't tangle with Moses if he doesn't tangle with us! He's—NO!"

Still swimming straight for the loop, the gator rose higher in the water so more of his body could be seen through the driving rain, and opened his jaws… and Brooklyn abruptly figured out what Old Moses was. He was **_big_**. No, **_huge_**! At least **_twice _**the size of the gator Brooklyn had caught before!

Brooklyn scrambled to pull the loop back in, but Old Moses caught the loop in his open jaws and ripped it right out of Brooklyn's hand! And the strong tug on his arm overbalanced his already precarious perch; he just had time to holler "**_Oh shi--!_**" before he hit the water.

He struggled to orient and right himself; the water here was shallow enough to stand up in, but first he had to get his feet under him and his wing uncaught from whatever it was snagged on—what, was he standing on his own wing?! _Hurry, you idiot, get out of the water_! he thought frantically. _That gator is right close by, and you're in **his** element now_…

00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00

Isabel cursed a blue streak as she struggled to keep from falling out of the rocking pirogue along with Brooklyn. She just barely managed, then grabbed for the steering pole as she shouted to Brooklyn, who was sputtering and flailing about in the water, "Climb that cypress tree over there! I'll distract him!" She began frantically whacking at the water surface with the pole, hoping the commotion would scare off Old Moses for a few seconds or better yet, that she would get in a solid whack on his thick scaly hide that would convince him to find easier prey. But that gator—at least 60 years old, judging from the clan tales of past encounters and from his massive eighteen-foot length—was as canny as he was huge; he wheeled about to avoid the pole and came arrowing back in at a different angle, swimming straight for Brooklyn! Who was still scrambling for that tree sticking up out of the water, but he had almost reached it; two feet away, now he had a hand on the trunk—

"**_YAAAARGGH!_**"

"**_NOOO_****_!"_**Isabel screamed as the gator, with its jaws sunk into Brooklyn's tail, wrenched about to yank his prey away from the tree and roll under the surface. The death roll that gators had perfected over millions of years, designed to drown the land-dwellers they caught, so the prey wouldn't resist while the gator ripped it apart and ate limbs and even entire creatures whole…

Still yowling, Isabel snatched up the steel frog gigger and leaped up from the pirogue, capsizing and sinking it in the process. It was a poor leap but she furiously flapped her feathered wings to giver herself more height, to stay in the air just a second longer until she was right over the bloody and turbulent water that marked where Old Moses was still struggling with Brooklyn under the surface. Then she plunged in, feet first with the gigger pointing down. The water was too murky for her to see what she was doing, but she sank until she felt the gator's rough scaly hide under her padded feet, then extended her retractable claws to clamp down as hard as she could. _Got him_! But it would take more than that to save Brooklyn; once a gator like Old Moses sunk his jaws in, nothing could distract or discourage him from his prey…

Feet still dug into his hide as her head went under the water, she reached down and frantically felt around—which way was the head? That was the tail; the other way! Old Moses was rolling her under too in his struggles, but she ignored the battering from old logs and debris on the bayou bottom and her lungs screaming for air as she continued feeling her way along his torso. There were the front legs… _the head_! Isabel gripped the steel frog gigger and drove it in with all her might, straight through Old Moses' brain.

00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00

A flock of birds had been perched in the canopy of trees to sleep for the night and stay out of the driving rain, but had been woken and startled off their perches by all the noise and commotion that had gone on in the water below them. Now that it seemed to be over, they resumed their perches—but a few of them shied off once more as a feline head abruptly breached the surface, sputtering and snarling.

It took entirely too long for Isabel to drag Brooklyn over to the nearest bank, to a place where she could at least set his head out of water while she reached down and rid him a literal dead weight—even in death, Old Moses had still been clamped onto Brooklyn's tail.

Few humans are strong enough to pry a gator's jaws apart with their bare hands, but gargoyle strength and talons are a different matter. Once she had him free of the gator, she dragged him farther up the bank, dragged her muck-matted mane to one side and stuck her head on his chest, listening and praying… _Yes_! A heartbeat! But he wasn't breathing, and if she didn't get air into his lungs really soon…

She turned him on his side and thumped his back, flipped him back over and pushed on his diaphragm, and even held him arse-up for a few seconds so his head was hanging down while pushing his diaphragm again, desperate to get the water out of him and good air back in. "Come on, you idiot, _breathe_! I _can't_ _do_ rescue breathing on you, neither of us is _built_ for it, so work with me here and **_breathe_**! Please _Mon Dieu, Mon Dragon_, please keep him here and let him _breathe_! Please… Come on, Brooklyn, breathe for me, **_breathe_**!"

Finally, Brooklyn coughed up two lungfuls of brackish water and began unsteadily breathing on his own. Isabel wanted to cry from sheer relief, but now was definitely _not _the time for it; Brooklyn's tail was still bleeding heavily from where Old Moses had bitten into him, halfway down the length and probably nearly halfway through.

She clawed off the remnant of plastic poncho that had still been around her neck all that time and wrapped it tightly around his tail, as tight as she dared. Guilliame's first aid training had mentioned tourniquets as strictly a last resort; they stopped bleeding in life-threatening situations, but the limb past the tourniquet usually had to be amputated afterwards. She had to make a pressure bandage tight enough to stop the bleeding, but not so tight that it crushed the veins and arteries that hadn't been bitten through.

Once she had the plastic wrapped securely around his tail, she hefted the still-unconscious Brooklyn onto her shoulder and headed for the nearest tree tall enough to launch from. Now she had to glide him, on her soggy feathered wings and in driving rain, back to the mansion for real medical care.

It was a struggle getting into the air with him and even harder to stay airborne, but she grimly kept it up until Etienne, the gargoyle on sentry duty for that side of the estate, spotted her and radioed the clan before leaping off his perch to give her a hand. "_Poo-yaille__, fille_, what happened to you two—a gator?" Etienne called out to her as he came within range, before grabbing his radio again and telling the clan to get Guilliame and his clinic ready for action.

Etienne was a leather-wing instead of feather-wing, so he could glide more easily in the rain; Isabel didn't argue when he insisted on carrying Brooklyn the rest of the way in, and just followed miserably behind him. Because she hadn't warned him about Old Moses fast enough, Brooklyn had nearly been killed and was badly hurt, and he could end up losing his tail or even _dying_ of shock and blood loss if Guilliame couldn't fix him up before dawn. And they were coming back with not only **_no _**food for the clan, but all their fishing equipment lost too. This was going to go down in the clan chronicles as Worst Date Ever…

00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00

In the kitchen with Martha, Broadway heard the commotion of running feet and raised voices, coming faintly from the rooms right above the kitchen. Martha looked worried as she glanced upwards. "That's the surgery right above us, and that's Guilliame's voice… and Celia, his assistant. Someone's been hurt! But I can't leave this sauce right now, it'll be ruined if I stop stirring… Broadway, would you mind going up to find out what happened to who?"

"Sure thing," Broadway said, already taking his apron off and heading for the door. But before he got more than halfway up the stairs, Celia met him coming down, looking tense. "Broadway, can you take over in the kitchen for Martha and send her upstairs? She's one of the only two adult Type F-pos's that are on the estate tonight, and the fastest to reach."

"Type F-pauses?" Broadway asked over his shoulder as he turned around on the stairs, to head back down.

"Gargoyle blood type F-positive. Remember the blood samples Guilliame took from all of you, to match blood types in case of emergency?"

Broadway remembered. Guilliame had taken samples from all of the clan soon after their arrival, to find out their different blood types in case of emergency. Generations of clan healers, humans and gargoyles working together, had determined that gargoyles had no less than twelve different blood types. And with gargoyles' unique physiology, there was no possibility of building up a blood bank; they had to rely on live and immediate donors whenever blood was needed for surgery. Having just experienced a medical crisis themselves, Goliath's clan was more than willing to let samples of blood be taken for typing and matching with other gargoyles in case of emergency.

Celia went on, "Brooklyn is F-positive, and Martha's the closest match. So tell her to--"

Broadway spun back around. "Brooklyn—_Brooklyn__'s hurt_?! How bad?" as he started to bull right past her up the stairs, to find out for himself.

Celia snapped her wings out to fill the stairway, blocking his way. "**_Don't_**! You'll only get in the way up there, Broadway! Don't make this any harder on us; we've already had to tell your Goliath to stay out and let us work! Just send Martha up to us ASAP, so we can prep her for donating! All I know is that Brooklyn got on the wrong side of a gator, and his tail's been bitten halfway through. He's lost a lot of blood already, and losing more while I'm standing here talking to you! **_Get Martha_**!" she tossed over her shoulder as she ran back up the stairs.

Broadway knew she was right, as much as he hated to admit it. So he charged back down to the kitchen and told Martha what had happened, and she tossed the wooden stirring spoon at him as she tore her apron off and hurried upstairs. Broadway gripped the spoon hard enough to leave talon-prints in it, then went over to stir the sauce, with his tail lashing in time to the stirring.

00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00

The sauce for the main course and one of the side dishes ended up going in the compost pile. Elisa finally called the main house to find out why Goliath hadn't been in the cottage for their nightly phone conversation. Angela nearly slapped a hatchling who had thought it'd be cool to make a sick joke about gators' appetites. Hudson went out into the bayou with Etienne, and came back to the estate with Old Moses' tail. Marie demanded that Isabel be banished as punishment for not taking better care of Brooklyn, and Adam finally told them **_both_** to make themselves scarce until dawn.

00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00

Brooklyn felt **_awful_**. His head was all full of soggy wool shearings, he ached all over, and he felt like he was lying on his stomach. Which was weird, because his head wasn't turned, and his beak always got in the way whenever he lay flat. But all that was swept aside by the **_pain _**emanating from his tail; the overall muzziness he was feeling dulled the worst of it, but it hadn't hurt that bad since that damn crazy priest had broken his tail when he was a hatchling. He couldn't stop a hoarse moan from escaping his beak.

"He's waking up!" someone called out, and suddenly there was a great commotion, and he opened his eyes to see Goliath suddenly scoot sideways into his view, lying mostly on his side and… peering up at him? And smiling, so whatever happened this time, at least he wasn't in serious trouble. But what had happened? And where was he?

He managed to croak out "Where…?"

"You're in Guilliame's surgery, and facedown on the recovery table; they have tables prepared for beaked and muzzled gargoyles here with wing and tail injuries," Goliath informed him. "And before you ask, Guilliame said you should keep your tail, though there will likely be some stiffness in it, and you may need physical therapy much like what Broadway is undergoing. You were lucky, Brooklyn; Guilliame also said the gator came within two millimeters of severing the main artery in your tail, and if it had you would certainly have bled out and died before reaching surgery. Or needed a tourniquet to keep from bleeding out, which would surely have cost you your tail forever."

Memory came flooding back with Goliaths' words, and Brooklyn would have jerked upright if he'd had the strength for it. "Th'gator! Izz'bel… she okay?"

"Stay down, stay still… Guilliame said you're not to get up or even _think _of moving your tail until tomorrow night! He and Celia spent over two hours stitching it back together. Yes, Isabel is in good health; she killed the gator and pulled you free of its jaws, and brought you back to the estate." Goliath's face was serious. "And Adam wants to hear your story of what happened, before he decides what is to be done with her."

"Done with…they wanna punish her?" Brooklyn shook his head as much as he was able to in the supportive frame it was cradled in, then fought the groggy feeling from whatever anesthetic they'd given him to speak slowly and clearly. "It was all my fault, Goliath; I was stupid. Like a hatchling trying to fly loops after just learning how to glide. Isabel **_told_** me to leave that gator alone, but I'd killed the other one so easily while fishing with Martha…"

"And you wanted to impress Isabel with your hunting skills?" Goliath guessed, though his expression said it was hardly a guess.

"…Yeah," Brooklyn admitted sheepishly.

Goliath sighed. "Well, you're hardly the first male to try such a stunt for the sake of a female. I'll tell Adam; you stay put and regain your strength. They'll bring in sunlamps for using on your stone form during the day, and I've no doubt you'll be up and around tomorrow evening… and by the way, I'm told the menu for tomorrow will feature gator." Goliath gave him a toothy grin before leaving his field of view.

"Well, that should make Isabel at least a little happy," a female said softly and a bit sadly from off to his right, as Goliath left the room.

He couldn't see who had said that, but the voice was familiar… "Martha?" he guessed aloud.

"It's me; I'm in a chair next to your table. They ended up taking a pint of blood out of Lucy and a full quart out of me, to put into you. Guilliame said that since I'm 'low by a quart' I'm to stay off my feet until next sunset, so I decided to stay in here and keep you company."

"Thanks. …Remind me tomorrow to make sure Marie understands this does **_not_** count as our third date," he said wryly.

Martha gave a soft chuckle. "She would be apt to say that, wouldn't she?" It was now common knowledge that Marie had tried to claim Isabel had had her first date with Brooklyn on the night of Brentwood's funeral, just because he'd spent some time in her workshop while writing out part of the eulogy for the slain gargoyle.

But after a few moments, Martha asked quietly, "But does it really matter?"

Brooklyn thought for a moment, or tried to, then said, "Does what matter? I'm kinda groggy right now. Can you be a little clearer?"

"Well… you just admitted to Goliath that you were trying to impress Isabel with your hunting skills. Making an effort to impress her, even." Martha finished in a voice just above a whisper, "You never tried to impress me like that."

Brooklyn was very glad at that moment that Martha couldn't see his face, nor he see hers… though it wasn't hard to imagine the expression on her face just then.

Martha finally asked, "So what's the point of going on more dates together, when I'm… when you… when you're already showing a preference for Isabel?"

Fortunately, he already had an answer for that; one that had been at the back of his mind for a few nights already. "The point is honoring the promise I made, when we first set up the dating schedule. Because believe me, if I was going to drop anyone from the schedule, Marie would be the first! But if I don't uphold my end of the bargain, Marie sure as hell won't hold up hers, and she'd make life miserable for everyone." He'd cleared his parched throat a few times while speaking, and now he asked plaintively, "Can I get some water, please?"

"Sure; Celia left a glass of water with a straw on a low tray for you, but Goliath nudged it out from under the table when he was talking to you earlier." He heard her shift in her chair and the click of her toe-talons as she nudged something metallic with her foot, then saw a wheeled footstool slowly roll into view with a tray and a glass of water balanced atop it.

He maneuvered the straw into his mouth and gratefully sipped while she settled back into her chair. When his throat wasn't quite so parched, he said, "Besides, I do like you, Martha. You're easy to talk to, fun to be with… and a better cook than Broadway, but don't tell him I said that. I just… well, I'm not feeling a strong attraction, not like I feel when I'm with Isabel… and with Yvette too, so that's another reason to keep dating."

"So Isabel doesn't quite have you in the game bag yet, hm?" But Martha's amusement sounded forced.

"No. I honestly wish it was that easy," Brooklyn said with a sigh. "I wish that I was like Lexington, so certain of who'd make the best partner for life that I could propose without a second thought, on the second date. Or maybe he has had second thoughts since then; the other night, he did seem..." Then he realized what he was saying and whom he was talking to. Lexington would not be happy with him if it got out that he'd been gossiping about his rookery brother's love life. "Um, sorry. My mouth kinda runs ahead of my thoughts sometimes. Anyway, even if we're not going to be mates, can't we go out together as friends?"

But before Martha could answer, the door to their room swung open and Broadway came in with his unmistakable heavy tread and a hearty "Hey, Brooklyn! I got your second-favorite drink here; a root beer milkshake! I'd have made it a regular root beer float, but Guilliame said it had to be something you could sip with a straw. And I made you an Orange Julius, Martha; let me know if it's the way you like it!"

"Hey, Broadway!" Brooklyn didn't raise his head to look at his brother, but lifted an arm to wave in his general direction. "How's everything?"

"Getting back to normal, now that we know you're going to be okay," Broadway said as he crawled on hands and knees into Brooklyn's view, grinning as he set the milkshake on the tray. "I guess tomorrow we can compare scars, huh?"

Next: _Gone Too Far_

_And Another Author's Note:_

_I love to hear from fans and usually don't mind answering questions about events and people in the series, although occasionally the answer is simply "wait and see". (Can't just give away all my characters' secrets, can I?)_

_However, I state here and now that I will **not** answer any questions involving further details on the emergency surgery __Brooklyn__ underwent to save his life and limb. _

_Any readers who wonder what went on prior to, during and after the surgery in this story are invited to watch "ER", "House" and the veterinarian specials that appear on the Animal Planet channel, and apply their imaginations_.


	6. Gone Too Far

**9.6: Gone Too Far**

The next sunset, Brooklyn inspected his tail once the bandages were removed, and was appalled at the rings of scar tissue encircling it. "So much for the 'concrete cure-all', huh?" he tried to joke.

"Stone sleep can do wonders for us, but it can't cure everything in one day," Guilliame informed him as he carefully snipped and pulled out the last of the stitches that had been sewn in the night before. "Though I must point out that you have far less scarring than a human who'd had his arm nearly severed by a gator bite would have. Now let's see how things are under the skin. Curl your tail to the left, and stop when the pain gets to more than just a twinge. Good, good; now curl it to the right, and stop when it starts seriously hurting…"

Brooklyn went through the set of range-of-motion exercises Guilliame dictated, and the chartreuse-skinned healer noted with satisfaction that he had most of the full use of his tail already, and a week's worth of physical therapy and stone sleep would probably see it fully restored. Guilliame added, "And if the scars really bother you, since they weren't earned while saving innocents or in combat for the clan's sake… I can do some cosmetic surgery on you, cutting the scar tissue away just before sunrise to let stone sleep heal your tail again. I'll be doing that for Broadway once his physical therapy strengthens his wing enough to replace some of the tissue lost by the Quarryman assassin's attack. But as with any surgery, there are risks involved, and I can't promise that all scarring will be removed without a trace; think about it for a few nights before deciding."

Brooklyn agreed to think about it, before going out to where the others were waiting. Angela had delayed going to her rookery duties long enough to see Brooklyn up and about again, and after everyone's happy greetings she inspected him and said reassuringly that the scar tissue on his tail didn't detract a whit from his overall virility.

"Of course he's as handsome and virile as ever!" Marie said as she swooped in to clutch at his arm. "Nothing could possibly detract from your appeal, _cher_ Brooklyn. Are you ready for our date tonight? I thought perhaps we could have our picnic after all…"

Brooklyn managed, barely, to keep from rolling his eyes. "Marie, if we're going to go on a bayou hunting date, then let's just _hunt,_ okay? Work comes before play, you know."

Marie pouted prettily but finally agreed to forego the picnic until after they'd hunted down some game for the clan. And as they headed out, Brooklyn privately resolved that _he_ would be the one to get the picnic supplies afterwards, if there was enough time to have a picnic before dawn. After the accusations that had been leveled at her a few nights ago, the chances of Marie actually intending to try anything funny on him during their date were probably slim to none. But after last night, Brooklyn just didn't feel like taking any unnecessary risks for a while.

00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00

Last night, neither Broadway nor Angela had brought up the subject of their nightly exercise; Brooklyn's medical emergency had disrupted everyone's schedules. But tonight, after her time in the rookery was done and he had helped Martha with most of the night's cooking, they met again at the edge of the bayou.

First came the physical therapy exercises that the clan doctors had ordered for Broadway's crippled wing; Angela noted that they seemed to get just a little easier each night, and surely Guilliame would clear him for gliding again very soon. "Have you asked him yet this week?" she asked him as she gave him a handtowel for wiping sweat from his brow ridges.

"I was going to do it last night, but after Brooklyn got hurt, that just wasn't the right time. And tonight Celia said he wasn't to be disturbed because he's doing more work on that big medical manual he wants to send up to Dr. Lacey; I guess after last night he thought of some more stuff about tails to put in there. But I'll ask him tomorrow for sure." Privately, Broadway had begun to doubt he'd ever glide well enough to be cleared for patrols again, in the manmade steep canyons and unpredictable updrafts and downdrafts found in Manhattan… but just to be able to get into the air and _glide_ would be a joy he'd never again take for granted.

Then came the fun part of the exercise, or at least the less tedious part; The Chase. Angela gave him a saucy grin as she flicked him with her tail and said "Tag, you're it! Five seconds head start!" as she dashed into the undergrowth.

Broadway grinned as he counted off the seconds aloud, then charged in after her. Running was exhausting, but it really was good exercise; when he'd weighed himself earlier that night, he'd been pleased to note that he'd lost over five pounds already, in just the eight nights they'd been doing this chase! If they kept this up till next year's breeding season, he'd be more than fit and trim enough to catch Angela in her breeding flight!

Angela usually kept them running for a full hour or more. And as usual, after only ten minutes Broadway began to tire, but he forced himself on in the way he always did, by deliberately calling up the most primitive urge of all; a male's urge to chase, catch and breed with a female during the breeding season. _Chasing my mate… gonna catch my mate… my mate… my mate…_

00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00

Angela had a pretty good time sense, as did most gargoyles, and she noted that they'd been running for over twenty minutes and she was just now starting to feel tired. This exercise was mainly for Broadway's benefit, but she was benefiting from it too.

Gargoyles were made for gliding, not running, and for their first run, she'd become tired after only ten minutes and had grimly forced herself on for the rest of the hour; both she and Broadway had been reduced to a stumbling near-walk by the time it was over. That first night she'd been almost pathetically grateful that dawn had been just a few hours away, and stone sleep would restore her far more completely than flesh-sleep ever did for humans.

But now, after only eight nights of hard exercise, she felt like she could run for a full two hours if she needed to… not that she planned to do so; she knew Broadway just wouldn't make it. But with all this endurance she was building up, she could probably glide all the way around Manhattan _twice _without stopping, once they returned home! Or perhaps make the 50-mile glide from the clan estate to the center of New Orleans all by herself, instead of hitching a ride with the human clan members like the city patrollers did.

That was a nice thought, actually; there was more of New Orleans that she wanted to see and explore besides what had been shown to her for the two nights she'd been driven into town. Maybe tomorrow night, when Broadway was stuck in the kitchen while Martha went on another date with Brooklyn, she would ask for a night off from rookery duties and—

"Oops!" as she stepped in what she'd thought was just a shallow mud-puddle, but which instead turned out to be some animal's burrow that had been flooded. Her right foot sank several inches into the hole and she fell forward, arms and wings flailing to stay upright and failing dismally. "Whouff!" as she hit the earth hard, knocking the wind out of her.

After a few seconds of just lying there stunned, she got her breath back and got up on her hands and knees, gingerly shaking out and testing her right foot and ankle. It hurt, but not too badly; she didn't think it was sprained. Still, she knew she should take it easy on that ankle until sunrise, which meant no more running tonight. She heard Broadway running up behind her as she got to her feet; he'd probably heard or, if he'd been close enough on her trail, even seen her go down. No doubt he was worried that she was hurt; Broadway did tend to worry over her, almost as much as her father did. "I'm fine, just had the wind knocked out of me," she said as she turned around to face him—

And his eyes were burning white—

and he was growling—

and he grabbed her tunic—

and ripped it halfway off her—

and grabbed her arm hard with one hand—

while the other grabbed at his belt, and ripped his loincloth off—

and he was erect—

and then she couldn't see it anymore because he was forcing her down, facing away from him, and—

this couldn't be happening! Not to _her_!

This just couldn't be happening—

but she was on her knees, and he was pushing down hard between her wings to get her down on her hands—

NO!

And she forced herself from shock to action, and started struggling. She managed to get free of his grip and up on her feet again—

But he lunged and grabbed her again before she'd gotten more than a step away—

and he was stronger than she was, and forced her back down—

and in desperation she tucked her tail hard between her legs and wrapped it around a thigh to anchor it in place, while screaming, "_No, Broadway, no_!"

And he was growling and pulling at her tail, loosening its grip—

"_No, please, Broadway, don't_! _NO_!"

and he stopped, and let go of her. "Angela?"

She scrambled forward fast, getting several feet of distance between them before spinning to face him. He just stared at her in shock, then looked down at himself, at the hands that he'd grabbed her with and at the erection that was rapidly receding… and then he howled in anguish and bolted, running blindly into the bayou.

Angela stared after him for a few moments, then collapsed where she stood, curling up on the ground and sobbing her heart out.

Next: _Desflagrate muri tempi et intervallia_


	7. Desflagrate Muri

_**9.7: Desflagrate m**__**uri tempi et intervallia**_

Several meters away, deeper in the bayou…

A ball of fire suddenly appeared three meters off the ground, then vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. And when it vanished, two gargoyles were left in its place… two gargoyles who squawked in alarm and flexed their wings out, but couldn't catch a breeze in time to avoid falling with a tremendous _**splat**_ into the mud of the bayou.

"Stinking, snarting, gravel-sucking piece of fod!" the male of the pair cursed angrily, as he stood up in the knee-deep muck and gave himself a vigorous shake all over, trying to get the mud and detritus off. "I swear it does that deliberately, just to jerk our tails!"

"This is all Puck's doing, I just know it," the female growled as she stood up and did the same. "He's never forgiven me for getting the better of him that _one lousy time_, just _once_ in the last four years, and he did something to the Gate before we left as his revenge!"

They wiped off as much of the muck as they could, helping each other with the backs of their wings and other areas that were hard to reach. An onlooker could have observed that the pair were apparently the same age, in their third decade; the gargoyle equivalent of teenagers.

The male had a lavender-colored hide and dactyl wings, bracketing a youthful yet well-muscled body. His pumpkin-orange mane was tied back in a ponytail, revealing ears ridged like fans and a craggy face with bony ridges running along both sides of his jawline. A pair of long stout horns poked up out of his mane at his temples and swept back past his head, with a strand of spanish moss persistently clinging to one horntip. He wore baggy black shorts with cargo pockets and a blue tank top, clothing that had seen better days; small holes and rips were visible here and there and the printed logo on the shirt, an apple with a bite out of it, was so faded it was barely discernable.

The female was turquoise-green in color, with dactyl wings framing a body in the bloom of maidenhood. Her face was nearly human-looking in its soft features and minimal brow ridges, but with her short-cut and sable-dark mane hanging limply with watery mud, a small bony ridge could be seen starting at her hairline and extending back across her head. The ridge extended all the way down her neck, back and tail, growing larger until individual spikes could be discerned from her waist on down, and a set of foot-long and wickedly sharp spikes adorned the last six inches of her tail. She wore a black halter-top and black shorts, which laced up the back above her tail to accommodate her ridge of spikes. She had many silver earrings, a pair of studs and trio of hoops adorning each long pointed ear, and wore a heavy necklace with a large round pendant of silver and moonstone.

Once they had cleaned as much of the muck as they could off themselves, the female asked with a sigh, "All right, where and when are we?"

The male fished an electronic device out of his pocket as he said, "The where is easy; you should recognize the vegetation too, from our visits. If this isn't the bayou outside the New Orleans Clan's home, I'll eat sawdust for breakfast. As for when…" he peered at a readout on the device, then concluded, "Somewhere between October and December 1996. For this time period, there's a two-month margin of error."

"1996… that's when the Manhattan Clan first went public, right? And the start of the P.I.T.?"

"Yeah. And as soon as they came out, and other clans found out they existed, the New Orleans Clan invited everyone down to New Orleans to get a break from fighting the Quarrymen, and get some unmated males and females paired up. We could be here during their first visit, Sis."

"Toasty!" the female said with a wide grin that showed her fangs. "After hearing from the parent generation about how they were all _sooo_ well-behaved when they were our age, now we can learn how some of them _really _were—and maybe get some blackmail material!"

The male grinned just as widely in response... but his grin faded a moment later. "Do you hear something?"

They both went silent and strained their ears, and faintly heard the sound of sobs, coming from the north. Moving as quietly as they could on the ground, they crept through the bayou until they could see a lavender-colored female gargoyle crouched at the base of tree, several yards away… a female with her clothing in tatters and bruises on her arms, and sobbing wildly into her hands.

"Oh gods," the male breathed, his face dismayed. "Is that…"

"It's Mom... and her clothes, and the way she's… Jesus and Dragon, she's been…!"

The female looked like she wanted to cry, as she stepped out of the bushes. Only to be abruptly yanked back by her tail, before Angela could notice her.

Concealed by the undergrowth again, the female turned on her companion, eyes ruby-red with rage as she hissed, "What the fleck are you doing?! What kind of asshole would want to leave _his own mother_ in that condition?"

"An asshole that's fleckin' _time traveling_," the male growled. "Think for a second, Sis! Did Mom ever say a word about this encounter to you? Either in our own time before we left, _**or**_ when we saw her in 2095?"

"…No," the female finally, reluctantly growled. "But then, she never told me about… about any of that!" as she pointed back at the scene under the tree. "Who the fleck would have—are you _sure_ this is 1996? _**Before**_ the Night the Children Came Home?"

"Pretty sure. And, well, maybe we're jumping to conclusions here about what happened to her…"

That earned the male a look of pure scorn and contempt as the female said in a whisper loaded with sarcasm, "Well, why don't we just look at the cursory evidence again?" And with that, she stepped to one side, turned and swiftly grabbed the male by an ear. Keeping a firm grip, she forced him to look at the scene under the tree as she hissed, "We have here a lone female with her clothes in tatters, bruising restraint marks on her arms and other signs of a struggle, and looking like her world's just ended. Like we never saw that on patrol back in our own time, on humans? What, do I need to crash the local police precinct and bring back a rape kit for you?"

"Okay, okay… You're right. I just didn't want you to be right this time, dammit!" the male hissed painfully as she finally let go of his ear. "I just… feel like either throwing up, or disemboweling somebody!"

"I vote for disemboweling," the female said with a snarl in her whisper. "Provided we're talking about the bastich who did this to her! But for now, we need to help her…"

"Without letting her know we're here," the male insisted.

"Not a problem," the female said grimly. "Right now, she probably needs a time-out from the pain and soul-ache anyway. Just let me glide within casting range," as she turned and headed for a tall tree a few yards away. She climbed the tree and launched into the night breeze, and circled around to glide over the clearing from a different angle.

By that time Angela's sobs had quieted, though not stopped entirely. Perhaps noticing the shadow moving over the meadow, perhaps alerted by the whoosh of wings, she started to look up as the younger female glided overhead. Just as the time-traveling gargoyle's silver-and-moonstone pendant glowed, and she spoke in oddly ringing tones: "_Somnus_."

Angela dropped in her tracks, instantly asleep. The daughter whose egg she had yet to lay nodded with satisfaction, then spiraled higher to get a good look around, while her son darted out of the underbrush and lifted her carefully in his arms. Moments later the female landed and said, "The mansion is about two miles to the north and east. If we take her right up to the edge of the estate, then cast a quick 'Look this way!' spell on the first female gargoyle we see nearby, she should be found right away and get the help she needs pretty fast."

"Sounds like a plan," the male agreed. "But what shall we do to secure the scene of the crime?"

The female's fangs showed again in a very nasty smile. "Why secure the scene, when I can get a magical DNA trace from that scratch on her arm? We can track down the bastich who did this and take care of him ourselves!"

His fangs showed in an equally nasty grin. "Sounds like an even better plan." And they trudged through the bayou towards the mansion, carrying Angela with them.

But after going only a quarter of the way to the estate, the male slowed to a halt, looking uneasy. "Ummm… look, Sis… do you think you could tell if there was, er… actual, uh, 'forced entry'? There'd be, like… trauma there, right?"

That earned him a look of disbelief and growing scorn as his sister said, "Are you fleckin' kidding me?! We went through this already! Godsdammit, do you really need me to get a rape kit?"

"Look, just humor me on this, okay? Because I think I remember something about this after all."

She looked at him oddly, but when he gently laid Angela down on a bed of moss and turned his back, she crouched down and gently looked Angela over. "Um… there's no visible bruising there, or vaginal bleeding. But then, the female body's designed to be able to take a lot of punishment; laying an egg is pretty damn hard, after all. And I'm not Doctor Athena; not really qualified to examine this sort of thing."

"But it looks like the perp might have… stopped before actually… penetrating, right?" as, still determinedly not looking, the male tugged on his own horns in agitation.

"I suppose, but then whoever drove him off would have helped her back to the mansion, right?" as she looked up at him. "That's what anyone with a sense of decency would do."

"_Fleck, fod and pigeonshit_! Sometimes I _hate_ being right," as the male tugged on his horns even harder, before dropping his hands and sighing. "I mean, it's a good thing for Mom if I am, but… Sis, we have to take her back to where we found her and go after the perpetrator, _right now_."

"What? Why?!" she demanded.

"Because even if you were never told about this, _**I**_ was; all the males in our generation were, as part of our coming-of-age rites. Come on, cast the tracer spell and I'll tell you on the way…"

**00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00**

Over a mile away, Broadway had finally stopped running, finally stopped sobbing; he sagged against a tree trunk, utterly spent.

He was an animal. A stinking animal, no better than a dog… no, that was an insult to dogs. He was a monster; it was that simple.

Angela had only been trying to get him to exercise, to lose weight… and he'd almost _**raped**_ her!

He'd never forget that terrified look on her face, as long as he lived. She'd been so afraid of him, afraid of what he almost did to her…

He should just rip the damn thing out by the root.

There was no way she'd accept him for a mate now. Not when he'd tried to force from her what should only be freely given.

And when Goliath found out… this was about the worst thing a male could do, short of killing someone. He'd be banished on the spot, and probably get his wings shredded too… not that he could use them anymore anyway.

He couldn't face that. He was just too much of a coward to face that. And he was too much of a coward to castrate himself, but there was one thing he could do…

He glanced up at the tree he was resting against, glumly assessing the strength of its branches. If he climbed up and out on that spindly limb there, up near the top… it looked like it might be strong enough to support him, but no sane gargoyle would choose it for a perch during the day. It was too flimsy, and if it didn't just break under his continued weight while in stone, the first breeze that swayed the branch would topple the stone form and send it plummeting to earth.

If he positioned himself just right before turning to stone, when it happened he'd land on his head and be shattered instantly.

Sunrise would be in about two hours. Now that he had a plan, he settled back to wait.

**00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00**

"Oh, Jesus and Dragon. It _**is**_ him," the female from the future whispered in dismay, looking at Broadway from their hidden vantage point.

"Yeah. And look at how he's just sitting there, his wings, his face…" The male expelled his breath in a forceful sigh. "Now I know what we're here to do. And I think I'd rather tangle with another pack of velociraptors, but…"

She looked at her brother. "You're going to talk to him?"

"Got to. No one else is going to find him before sunrise, and he looks like he just might be thinking about greeting his last. Can't risk that, can we?"

"Do you…" the female swallowed hard. "Do you want me to go with you?"

He gave her a considering look, then shook his head. "It's a nice idea; the words might be even more effective coming from a female. But if you're even a little angry--and I can tell you're still feeling the urge to blaze on somebody for Mom's sake, don't bother denying it--he'd probably pick up on it and the whole effort would be ruined. But I still need you to cast an illusion spell on me. Give me, um… red skin, a green mane and another hundred or so years of age. Gotta look and sound like the voice of experience…"

**00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00**

It wasn't much of a suicide note, but he hadn't brought a pencil or paper with him, and there wasn't much to write on or with out in the bayou. Still, Broadway thought that the words _I'M SORRY_ that he'd just scratched into the bark of the tree with a talon, would get the point across to the first gargoyle or human to find his remains.

"An' what 'zactly are you sorry 'bout?"

Startled, Broadway turned around to face the person who'd just spoken; an elder gargoyle with a red hide and green mane that he'd never seen before. "W-who are you? Are you from Adam's clan?"

"Ayuh, I am; name's Genesius An' you're one of dem from de clan up in New York, ain'tcha? I saw y'all at the feast the clan had t' welcome you to N'Awlins. You're… Broadside, right?"

"Broad_way_," he automatically corrected. "After a big street back in Manhattan; there's a lot that goes on there. How come I haven't seen you around the estate before?"

"Eh, I spend mos' time out here, wit' de human clan membahs dat live back inna bayou," the older male shrugged. "Me an' some of de udder elders, we don' get along so well. Dey call us swamp folk in to de big house for big to-do's like for when you showed up, but I even perch on the same roof wit' some folks, there be hard words said afore sunrise. But dat's an old bone, not wort' sniffing over 'gain. What you so sorry 'bout tonight?"

Broadway looked away. "You don't want to know."

"Pardon, but I b'lieve I do," the elder said, eyeing him keenly. "I may not be to de big house much, but I'm still _clan_, an' de clan's troubles be my troubles too. So what trouble did you get into?"

Broadway didn't want to expose his shame to a stranger, but the elder persisted, and finally he broke down and choked out the whole story. He tried to keep the tears from spilling out again, but a few of them squeezed out anyway. And all the while Genesius listened, with only a mild frown on his face. And when he was finished, Genesius said, "Pardon, but I b'lieve I heard a certain word in dere somewhere… an' that word was 'almost'. So you didn't actually poke your _boudin_ inside her?"

"N-no… but I--"

"Ayuh, you came close… but you stopped afore den. Was it 'cause she knocked you toes-up, an' ran for it while you were out cold?"

"No, I stopped because she _screamed_ for me to stop!"

"Ayuh. She screamed, and you stopped y'self; no one else had t' jump in. That ain't like mos' rapes and almost-rapes I've heard tell of, where de guy just got what he wanted no matter what de gal said, or screamed." Genesius shook his head. "Dey don't stop, s'posedly because dey can't control demselves when dey all worked up, can't stop demselves… except dat's horseshit, since dey usually stop pretty damn fast if somebody else comes barging in. Fact is, dem males don't stop demselves because dey don't _wanna_ stop; 'cause dey care about getting' sex more than dey care about de girl. Now, in your case… you stopped y'self. What does dat say?"

"It says… that I care about Angela more than about sex. And I do!" Broadway started to brighten for a moment, then shook his head. "But what I did…"

"Ayuh, you gave her a scare, dat's f'certain," Genesius said with a solemn nod. "Likely be a long while afore she forgets that."

"If she ever does… I just…" Broadway looked at Genesius pleadingly as he asked, "Do you think she'll ever accept me for a mate after this?"

After a short pause, Genesius said with a shrug, "What, you t'ink I can tell de future? Dat's up to her… an' to you. B'cause I can say dis much f'certain; dere ain't no way she'll even talk to you again if you don't go an' talk to her first. You got to talk this out, settle it between you, or dere's no hope at all."

"Yeah… you're right," Broadway said, looking at his toe-talons. "Tomorrow, I'll--"

"_Tonight_, youngster," as a red talon gently prodded him in the chest. "You go talk to her _right now_. De longer dat scare you gave her sets in, de harder it'll be to ease later on. Now get your tail moving; ain't dat much time till sun-up!"

"Right," Broadway said again, as he turned and began striding purposefully off, following his trail back to where he'd last seen Angela. "Thanks, Genesius!" he called over his shoulder.

"Any time," the elder said, just before the bayou undergrowth hid him from view.

**00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00**

"Angela? Angela, sweetheart, please wake up… please be okay, please wake up…"

Someone was calling her name… Broadway? He was asking her to wake up, which was weird… had she been sleeping in flesh like a human, instead of in stone?

Here eyelids felt oddly heavy, but she opened them to discover that she was lying on a grassy knoll. Something tapped the edge of her wing, while Broadway called her name again.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," she mumbled as she pushed herself up to a sitting position, facing him as he scooted back a pace, from just within arm's reach to well outside of it. "What happened; why was I--"

Then she remembered. The memory overwhelmed her for a moment, and when she came back to her senses, she was ten feet further away from Broadway and halfway up a tree.

But he didn't chase after her; he just sat there on his haunches as he had been before, but now slumped even lower. "Angela… I really am sorry, and I swear it'll never happen again."

"It had damn well better not!" Angela snarled. She'd been shaking with fear, but it had almost instantly transmuted into shaking with rage. She leaped down from the tree to face him with talons out and tail lashing as she snarled, "Or I swear that I'll _**rip**_ it off you, _and shove it down your throat till you choke to death on it_!"

"And I'd deserve it," Broadway glumly agreed. "But can I point out that I stopped _before_ actually raping you? I was pretty deep in mating lust, which was my fault; that's how I'd been motivating myself to keep on chasing you when I was exhausted. But when I realized you didn't want it, I stopped… because I care about _**you**_ more than I cared about sex, even in that state. Do you understand?"

And he said no more; just sat there and waited. Angela considered his words, as she slowly settled her wings and let her arms drop to her sides. Finally she said in as level a voice as she could manage, "I can appreciate that, but for right now I'm still pretty mad at you. And I'm not going back to the estate in this condition, with my clothes half ripped off!" as she cloaked her wings tightly about herself. "You can make amends by finding me something decent to wear… without a word to _anyone_ of what happened, right?"

"Abso_**lute**_ly," Broadway said emphatically as he got up, while wrapping his wings around his own exposed nether regions. "I know where Yvette keeps her spare clothes, and she's about your size; I'll leave her a note saying that your tunic got snagged on a tree branch or something, and we just need to borrow one of her dresses for a while until you can mend it. Hey, if you asked her nicely enough, she might even make a new outfit for you!"

Angela didn't particularly like the thought of asking Yvette for _any_ sort of favor, after their recent clashes over Broadway's future wedding attire. But instead of saying that loud, she asked, "And what about clothes for yourself?"

Broadway picked up the belt for his loincloth, looked at where he'd ripped the leather while tearing it off him earlier, then concluded, "I think I can stitch this back together, if Yvette has a tough enough needle and thread. And the wool just needs washing; I'll be decent by tomorrow."

"All right… I'll stay behind cover just inside the bayou while you get the clothes and bring them to me. We'd better hurry; dawn's not far off," as Angela glanced to the east, which was a shade lighter than it had been earlier. They had perhaps an hour before sunrise.

They set off for the mansion together, in tense silence. A silence that was broken after a minute or two by Broadway saying tentatively and without looking at her, "Angela… maybe--"

"No more chasing," she said shortly. "We'll find some other way to get your aerobic exercise."

Broadway nodded. "I was about to suggest that. Not because I can't be trusted anymore, but because it'd probably remind you of what happened… of what _almost_ happened… and I don't think either of us will ever want reminders of this."

He knew her too well, really; she'd just been thinking about how any future chases would be fraught with terrible memories, springing up every time she heard his heavy breathing behind her.

Broadway had known what her fears were back in early October, too; when they'd had to talk about what Goliath's rookery brother and sister had done while housed in their bodies. Had to talk, because she could barely even look at him without blushing and wanting to run from the room, from the memories of her hands all over that body and his hands on her… At least that time, they'd been able to blame it all on someone else!

It was true, he _had_ stopped when she'd started screaming. (Though it would have been better if he'd stopped when she'd first started fighting his efforts to rape her…)

And in all honesty, she'd suspected before that he had been using thoughts of sex as motivation in order to keep chasing her. Suspected it and not much liked the idea, but resigned herself to it because if that was what helped him lose weight and get in shape…

Did that mean… by suggesting the chases in the first place… Had she partly brought this on herself?

Dear God, had poor _Esther_ ever thought such thoughts?!

Gaahh, she was still just too tied in knots inside! She had to get her mind on something else, _anything_ else, that would let her relax before she just imploded!

"Broadway… tell me a story!"

"…what?" as he stopped to look at her.

"Keep walking, or we won't make it back in time! But I need a story, one I haven't heard before; something from your hatchling days!"

"Um… well, there was the time Brooklyn, Lexington and I were tricked into thinking we'd broken an egg in the rookery…"

Broadway told the story as they walked, and since she always loved to hear more details about the old clan, it was enough to distract Angela from thoughts of what had happened…

Until Goliath swooped down to land right in front of them.

Except for Yvette or a Quarryman, he was absolutely the last person Angela wanted to see right now! And he was just standing there looking at them, with his arms folded across his chest, his face grim…

"You were due back at the estate nearly three hours ago," he finally said. "I came out to see if you'd encountered an alligator as well. Now, considering what I saw from on high of your clothing, or lack thereof… and considering the bruises and scratches I can see now… shall I sniff for bonding markers, or just start ripping wings off?"

**00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00**

In the end, Goliath did neither, once he'd heard the whole story... although his eyes were burning white before they were done. But he spoke not a word, until after Angela assured him for the second time that all her scratches and bruises were minor, and would hardly need stone sleep for healing. Then he said slowly and firmly, "No. More. Chases. Not here, and _certainly_ not back in Manhattan's Central Park."

"I already told her I wouldn't chase her anymore," Broadway assured his leader.

"Good." Goliath considered for a moment, then said, "The two of you will go to the cottage at the edge of the estate that Elisa and I used, and perch on the far side from the mansion. That should be far enough from curious eyes to do until tomorrow. Elisa left her swimsuit behind when she went back to Manhattan; it's backless and quite elastic, so after a tail hole is cut, that will do for temporary clothing for you, Angela, until we can get new clothing made. Elisa will understand and agree to it, once I explain the situation to her—and rest assured, I'll be telling no one else. Tomorrow I'll see about getting you a new belt, Broadway." Then Goliath told Broadway to go ahead to the cottage, while he stayed behind to talk to Angela.

Broadway looked uneasy. "Um, uh, Goliath, if you're thinking about yelling at her about the chasing… yeah, it was her idea, but it was _my choice_ to go along with it, and to motivate myself the way I did; what happened wasn't her fault at all. I'm the only one who deserves any discipline you might give."

Goliath half-smiled, for the first time since coming upon them. "Thank you, Broadway; that shows great maturity. Rest assured, there'll be no discipline for either of you; I don't think it's needed in this case. Now, I think there's still a steak or two in the cottage's icebox…"

Broadway took the hint and strode ahead of them. Goliath waited until he was out of easy hearing range but not out of sight, then said quietly to Angela, "I had another reason for coming out to find you. Brooklyn and I talked earlier tonight, and he took me out to Yvette's workshop to see the mating ceremony attire you're having her make for Broadway."

Angela had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "And…?"

"And we're all three agreed: your expectations of how much weight Broadway should lose are not only unrealistic, they are dangerous to his health." Goliath eyed her sternly. "Broadway could certainly stand to lose some weight, but it's simply not possible for him to shed as many inches and pounds as he'd need to shed to fit those clothes, in the span of a single year… not unless we took talons to him and _flensed_ him of all excess flesh!" He arched a brow ridge at her. "And I trust you're not holding that idea in reserve…"

Angela fervently denied any thoughts of harming Broadway in the slightest. "I just want him to get in better shape!"

"He was a fit warrior for patrol duties before his wing was shattered," Goliath reminded her. "And once his wing is fully mended, he will be again, even with his excess weight. I know you're concerned about the breeding flight, and you're right; a good long and fast flight is needed for breeding good strong eggs and hatchlings. But there are some gargoyles in the New Orleans Clan who are quite stout, though not as stout as Broadway, and they're of an age to have taken part in breeding the current generation of strong, healthy hatchlings in the rookery. Instead of forcing Broadway to lose so much weight, you should be talking to some of the elders here and learning more about breeding flights, and how a couple that's mismatched for speed can have a good long flight and still ensure an egg is bred at the finish."

"But--"

"Angela, _this is an order_: no more nagging Broadway to lose weight. He already knows you want him to become more fit, and he's proven himself a responsible adult; let _him_ decide how much weight he should lose and what he'll need to do in order to achieve his goal."

Angela finally sighed and lowered her head. "Yes, Father."

"Which reminds me… While I've come to accept you calling me Father and indeed regard you as my daughter, call me only Goliath for the rest of our stay here, even when you're not on rookery duty. Any slip you make will likely inspire Elizabeth and Ursula to insist you spend even _more_ time in the rookery."

Angela smiled wryly. "Good point, F—Goliath."

"And…" Goliath raised a talon to indicate _one more thing_. "When the next generation hatches eleven years from now, I will not allow _**any**_ hatchling to call me _Grandfather_." He dramatically threw his hands in the air as he exclaimed, "Biologically speaking, I'm too young to be a sire to a fully grown female! I'm not going to be a grandfather before I'm old and gray!"

His human-quoting melodramatics made Angela chuckle, as he'd surely planned, and they smiled at each other before walking back to the estate together.

Entirely unaware that two other gargoyles had silently observed their exchange, from up in a nearby tree and behind a spell of invisibility. As Goliath and Angela walked away, the female of the hidden pair whispered to the male, "Gate's building a charge again, bro'; time to go."

"Just a few more minutes, okay?" he hissed back, eyes on the gargoyles below them.

"No, _not_ okay! If I try to hold back the jump for more than a few seconds, I won't be able to cloak the fireball effect when we leave!"

"All right, all right," he muttered irritably. Taking one last look, he whispered, "Bye, Mom… bye, Grandpa…"

THE END

More Author's Notes:

For those curious to know the whole story, the tale that Broadway told Angela about the supposedly broken egg was recounted in full in the TGS: Dark Ages story "To Every Season".

Also, the Catholics have saints for pretty much every occasion and vocation, and Genesius happens to be the patron saint of actors. Seemed like a good name for a gargoyle to use when playing the role of a clan elder!

**FAN PARTICIPATION TIME:**

Angela's going to get a new outfit! What will her new clothing look like? Feel free to send me your pics and sketches, and the outfit that I think suits her best for everynight wear will be written into the series starting in the next Mating Games story, with a link to the pic and credit to the artist.


End file.
